


Below Stairs

by pauraque



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: merry_smutmas, M/M, Masturbation, POV First Person, Pedophilia, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-05
Updated: 2004-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:18:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry receives a visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Below Stairs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Passo in the 2004 Merry Smutmas gift exchange.

I come to him in his little cell beneath the staircase.

The air is thick with dust, the bent-down ceiling mildewed. He sits on his dingy bed in shorts and a thin shirt. Chin resting on his knobby red knees, arms clasped around his shins. Jaw set and brows knit— what has happened that the little hero pouts so? A harsh word from the Muggle filth who hold him captive here?

The bare light bulb swings on its chain, making the shadows creep up and down the walls. The boy takes off his glasses— marked by pathetic attempts at sellotaped repair— and rubs his eyes hard. His frown deepens, trembles. But no— even thinking himself alone, he refuses to cry. Ah, what a _boy_ he is!

He puts his glasses aside and lies down awkwardly on his back. The bed is too short for his legs; he's sprouting like a gangly colt now, limbs lengthening almost by the day. He folds his hands over his belly, just at the waistband of his shorts. Shrugs his shoulders together and squirms back and forth a bit, seeking comfort on the spartan pallet. Lets out a little huff of breath, then lies still.

The quiet of the house is heavy here, creaking beds from above and thuds of water pipes below. I drift further down towards him, his warmth. I am right beside him now, and he merely gazes up at the ceiling, suspecting nothing. The details of him: The tiny bumps of his nipples in the knit white shirt. The fine hair, nearly invisible on his arm. It has been a long time since I had a body, and longer since I had one such as this. Smooth and pure, just on the edge of the violent corruption that will come upon it in a year or more— the beginnings of age, of death.

I caress his cold-blotched cheek, whisper past his ear. He flinches, but barely. Twists his hips up off the mattress uncomfortably and then drops down again.

After a moment, he wriggles out of his shorts. Childishly puts up his legs so that he can pull the clothing free of his feet, then throws it blindly onto the already cluttered floor.

He slides his hand down to the crease of his thigh, and rubs himself there a moment. There is no hair yet, and I had forgotten how nude a boy looks at such an age. He touches hesitantly, chin lowered against his chest and watching himself as he strokes the top of his penis with his thumb. He is circumcised, and that surprises me— when I was young, it was only the Jewish boys. All things change with the times, I suppose.

Harry spreads his thighs as his small cock stiffens in his hand. He squeezes the base of it, rocking his hips back and forth a bit. He is still learning his body, learning what brings pleasure. He is fortunate, being left to himself to make these explorations. What would I have given for even the most cramped of private rooms?

The boy slowly moves his fist up and then down. Shifts uncomfortably, frowning, and switches to fingertip stroking again. His penis is nothing like a grown man's, not yet a monster, heavy, veined and grotesque. It is smooth and flushed, perfectly shaped. Harry runs his fingertip along the slight bulge of the underside, and sucks in a breath through his teeth. I lie unseen beside him, captivated.

After a few minutes of this, he seems to have a brainwave. He suddenly props himself up on one elbow, and spits into his palm. When he grasps himself again, he can comfortably rub harder, making use of his whole hand. A small sound escapes his lips, a hitched breath and a closed-mouth moan.

As he masturbates himself, I let my unfelt touch drift over his hard nipples, his pale, concave abdomen (revealed as his shirt rides up), the jutting bones of his hips. There is power here, to be sure. I can feel it burn beneath this new childish lust, just under the surface— power that will one day be turned against me, another day turned to serve.

I think of what I will do with this boy when he is mine.

His strokes find a rhythm, and his other hand moves down to touch his bollocks, red and hairless. He rubs them gently, experimentally— a tender spot, capable of great pleasure and great pain. The boy is finding that pleasure now, closing his eyes and tilting his head back, exposing his pale smooth throat.

What is he thinking of, I wonder? What fantasy pleases him? Does he wish pain on those who do him harm? I come even closer to him, closer to his mind—

He starts with a gasp, sits up halfway. He brings one hand to his forehead, wincing. I withdraw myself, drifting to the other side of the cupboard.

It is not long before he shakes his head, lies down again and returns to his barely-softened cock. He spits into his hand, having learnt that ritual now. He arches his back as he rubs, narrow chest rising and falling. His face begins to flush, and I move closer again.

His breath catches, and he looks down at himself again as he pushes up into his fist, his toes gripping at the sheets. I am just beginning to wonder if he is old enough to climax, when he lets out a sharp cry of pleasure and fearful surprise, squeezes himself hard and comes, wringing his skinny legs together. He spurts just a few inches onto his lower belly, and it does not last long.

When he's finished, he sits up, winded. Touches his belly, and his fingertips come up dripping with his seed. His eyes go wide, and he swears in a hiss. Scrambles over the side of the bed to retrieve a bit of dirty laundry from the floor, and mops himself up as best he can, his soft mouth hanging open and breathless.

The boy hurriedly buttons a too-large shirt around himself and grabs the door handle— Locked.

He swears once more, this time in anger, and sits back down on the bed. He fumbles for his glasses, lifts up the shirttails and examines himself, looking terribly worried. Again he passes the heel of his hand over his forehead. Had I breath, I would surely laugh.

*

When I return to myself, I can feel the rapid pounding of Quirrell's heart, and his ragged, shallow breath.

 _Hold up the mirror_ , I tell him in his thoughts. _Let me see your face_.

His hands tremble as he brings up the cracked and dirty glass. He is pale with shock, eyes wide like a struck child.

 _Have I upset you?_

'N-no,' he answers aloud. 'Of course not, my Lord.'

 _Are you aroused?_

'No! C-certainly not.'

 _You lie. How corrupt you have become. To lust for a boy, and one so young._

'I... am sorry, my Lord.' His voice is thick with shame.

I laugh. _As you should be, Quirrell. But you know it is I who will purify you._

 _When he comes to us, you will watch him closely, will you not?_

'Yes,' my servant says in a quavering whisper. 'I will.'


End file.
